


Brilliant Dreams

by glitterburn (orphan_account)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-28
Updated: 2010-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-12 06:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/glitterburn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I suppose you'd really like to hear how I admire you because you remind me of myself at your age, but you don't. You're nothing like me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brilliant Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> for Claudia

_Monaco, 2003_

"Thank you for coming to see me."

The phrase in all its banality hung in the air, as insubstantial as the dust motes that flickered light then dark, drifting away from the sunbeams.

"Dave told me to. Don't flatter yourself it's because I care."

Silence followed his reply, just as it had paused for breath after the initial announcement. Jenson lay very still against the plumped pillows of his hospital bed and stared at the darkness of the television screen opposite. Beside it stood a vase of tulips, red and yellow, their stems battered by the haphazard arrangement, fractured by the trompe l'œil of the water. Lou had brought them only an hour ago, yet already he could see how the delicate petals had begun to curl in the heat of the room.

"Open the window, would you?" he asked, thinking more to preserve the flowers than from any need for fresh air.

There was a rustle as Jacques leaned across the sill, disturbing the blinds, and then a click and a rush of noise from outside. The resounding blat of race-cars had given way to the quieter, more invasive wash of Monaco traffic. Jenson relaxed slightly. This was the sound that accompanied his days in the Principality, and although he usually found it irritating, now it seemed almost soothing.

A faint breeze whispered its way past the blinds and stirred the tulips. Jenson found that they commanded his gaze, as doubtless was the point. In her absence, Louise always knew how best to gain his attention. The flowers were as bright and vibrant as was she, and they wholly cast into the shade the slight, scruffy man who still stood by the window.

"If you're here under duress, you can go at any time," Jenson said. "You've done your bit for team PR."

"I'll go when I'm ready." Jacques' reply was a shade too quick.

Startled, Jenson turned his head towards him and then froze, a groaned sigh of pain hissing out of him as his brain slammed against the front of his cranium and then proceeded to tapdance throughout the rest of his skull. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, and struggled to breathe deeply and clearly, willing the pain to fade.

"Here."

Cautiously, Jenson opened one eye and then the other to see Jacques holding out a glass of water. He took it, sipped, and then held onto it, wrapping both hands around the glass. The water was warm and tasted vaguely clinical. He wondered if there were painkillers dissolved into it, then decided he didn't much care.

"Thanks," he said.

Jacques shrugged, his shoulders lifting slightly under the pale blue shirt he wore, but the action didn't move his thumbs, shoved aggressively into the belt-loops of his faded jeans.

There was another silence. Jenson rotated the glass slowly between his palms, pinking at the rim with a fingernail in nervous tattoo. Jacques watched him, his eyes bright behind his spectacles, but still he said nothing.

"What do you really think of me?" Jenson suddenly blurted out.

Jacques snorted. "You've had a shunt, not a fatal illness. True confessions should always wait for the death-bed."

Jenson tried for a laugh. It came out weak and castrated. "I always wondered… I thought this would be a good time…"

"A good time for me to be nice to you? The fuck I will," Jacques said levelly. "I suppose you'd really like to hear how I admire you because you remind me of myself at your age, but you don't. You're nothing like me."

Jenson raised his gaze from the glass and stared at Jacques. "Thank God. I don't want to be washed up at your age, knowing that it was my own stupidity that made me such a failure."

A couple of years ago, Jacques would have punched him. Now he simply raised his eyebrows and said, "When you're the World Champion in two different series', then you'll have the right to say things like that."

"I will be World Champion one day," Jenson said with feeling.

"I doubt it." Jacques sat on the edge of the bed and looked at him. The light reflecting from the window into Jacques' spectacles obscured his eyes, so Jenson wasn't certain how serious he was when he continued: "Even if Frank wanted you back – and there's no evidence of that little miracle occurring – you wouldn't be a champion, just like David will never be champion."

Jenson's lips twisted into a pained half-smile. "David's your mate!"

"Yes – and I don't see much point in lying to my friends," Jacques said. "He knows as well as I do that he'll never make it now. He had his chance, and he handed it to Mika for the exact same reason as you – because it's easier to be a number two driver. It's easier to settle for being second-best. And when you wake up one day and realise the truth of this, it'll be too late for you to do anything about it."

"David lets you talk like this to his face?" Jenson asked, flabbergasted.

Jacques smiled. "Yes."

"I'm glad I'm not your friend…"

"You have no idea." Jacques adjusted his spectacles slightly, and the light flashed from them, brief and dazzling. "What David lacks, what you lack, is passion. David's greatest moment was not on the track, but when he rescued Heidi from the 'plane crash. Why do you think they broke up? Not because she wanted to get married and start a family, but because he knew there was nothing greater he could do to prove himself to her after that moment. He was a hero in Heidi's eyes, but it was a heroism that anybody could attain. Anybody can pull people from a wreck, but only the chosen can win grands prix and become the champion."

"That's a little heartless," Jenson protested, but softly.

"It's true, though." Jacques bent up one knee, locking his hands around it and resting his heel on the side of the bed. A smear of dust blurred grey the whiteness of the sheets, but although he looked at it with distant annoyance, Jenson did not scold his team-mate.

"So you're saying the British lack passion? Is that it?" he asked instead. "How do you explain Damon, then?"

Jacques shook his head as if at a young child. "I didn't say that. Damon had extraordinary passion – he just hid it well. Tell me, who do you race for? Your father, your girlfriend, or for yourself?"

Jenson laughed frankly. "Myself, of course."

"Why of course?"

"Because – because…" Jenson stumbled over the thought, unable to think of a reason. Finally, aware that it sounded lame and equally aware that it wasn't strictly true, he said, "Because the most important person in any equation is always yourself, so if you can't do what you want in life, then it's a life wasted."

"I see." Jacques rocked backwards slowly, still holding his knee, and Jenson surreptitiously moved his foot out of the way beneath the sheets. He didn't want Jacques touching him, no matter how accidentally.

"Damon raced for his family," Jacques continued a moment later. "For Georgie, for his kids – and for his father. He's passionate about them, so he won for them, and kept on trying for their sake until he'd done the best he could."

"Is that what you do?" Jenson asked, his voice sharpening. "Do you race for your father?"

Jacques let his gaze wander around the room. "Perhaps."

Jenson put down the glass of water on the bedside table, instinctively wiping his hand on the sheets as the water splashed over the side. "This is bollocks. Utter shite, all of it! If what you're saying is true, then why didn't you and Damon stop racing after you'd won the championship? Yeah, so Damon got out after a few seasons, but you – you've been limping along for what, six years? What's the point in that? What does it prove?"

"Hope springs eternal," Jacques replied, smiling gently; but this time Jenson could see his eyes, and the expression in them was far from being amused.

"No," said Jenson, agitated, struggling to sit up properly. His feet scrabbled on the cotton of the sheets, skin slipping until he forced his feet down onto the mattress for purchase, and he levered himself out of the froth of sheets to face Jacques.

"No," he said again, "that's not right. There's no way someone like you would carry on year after year in a shitty team, just in the hope that things will get better."

"Someone like me?" Jacques repeated in wonderment. "You're doing it too, remember, only in a succession of shitty teams – except as soon as you leave, they suddenly get better."

Jenson winced at this reminder of Benetton-Renault, but he carried on regardless: "You know how this game works. You must know that it's practically impossible that you'll get the chance to drive for a top team again. So – why stay? Why are you doing this to yourself? It can't be for the bloody money."

"Maybe it proves that I'm not a quitter," Jacques said lightly, finally letting go of his knee and settling himself more comfortably upon the bed.

"So you keep going until they retire you." Jenson's face registered disbelief and pity. "Where's the dignity in that? Eddie quit while he was ahead – so did Mika. Why the hell can't you?"

Jacques' answer was a faint smile; then he said, "Don't you know yet? That's why I said you lack passion. You don't have the ability to fall in love with your job. It's in your life, it's part of your life – but it's not your life. It doesn't consume you. You don't allow it to rule you, to fuck you deeper than any lover, to drag you down further than any drug."

Jenson blinked, startled. "I don't think that's true…" but he knew it was. "We can't all be like that," he said in defence. "Most of the new drivers aren't like that."

Jacques spread his hands wide. "I rest my case."

"It doesn't make us bad people!"

"I never said it did," Jacques said gently. "It just makes you a generation of bland, easily-forgotten heroes. Attainable heroism, as I said before. Why did you come into this sport, Jenson? To do your best, or to be the best?"

"Because it was my dream," he said, honestly. "My dream – and my father's."

Jacques nodded his acceptance, then he leaned forwards, catching Jenson's gaze and holding it tight. "I still have a dream," he whispered. "A dream that, one day, I'll be just like my father. And I'll keep racing until it happens."

Jenson stared at him in silent, horrified awe; and then he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, dropping his gaze to contemplate the sheets that wrapped him around.

Outside, the traffic continued to grumble. A klaxon sounded from the harbour. Within the room, Jacques moved from the bed, standing up and brushing down his jeans, adjusting his shirt more comfortably. "I'll be off, then," he said.

Jenson watched him walk towards the door. "You said you never lied to your friends. What you just told me – it was all true, wasn't it?"

Jacques paused, looking back. "You decide."

"And… does that make us friends?"

He smiled fleetingly. "Perhaps."

Just before he left the room, Jenson called, "Jacques," and when he turned again, Jenson asked, "Will you take the tulips away? I never asked for flowers."


End file.
